


It's Obvious He Fancies You

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Series: Johnlock Trope Challenge [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Challenge Response, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, First Kiss, Holidays, Johnlock Trope Challenge, M/M, Mistletoe, One Shot, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 22:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1795543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas, and Sherlock asks Mrs. Hudson to maneuver Molly and Greg together under the mistletoe. John finds it comes in quite handy later, too. </p><p>For Day 15 of the Johnlock Trope Challenge: Mistletoe</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Obvious He Fancies You

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note that this is a series of one-shots for a challenge and these stories will be wildly different in style and tone as I try out some new things. They aren't meant to connect to each other in any way. There's a 48-hour window to write and submit these, so results may vary!

Paper snowflakes and strings of fairy lights and stockings and trees were all very fine when they invaded someone else’s home, but each year Mrs. Hudson and John, too indulgent to say no to her, decorated the flat at Christmastime. It gave Sherlock a headache to watch. He left, seeking refuge in the sterile environment of the lab at St. Bart’s.

But then Molly came in, wearing a Christmas jumper in garish reds and lurid greens with reindeer leaping and sparkling and, good God, even jingling with bells sewn on. She smiled brightly and he averted his eyes.

“So,” Molly said cheerfully, determinedly, setting down a tray. “Holiday drinks tonight. You’ll be there, right?”

Sherlock turned to look at her. “Pardon?”

“Drinks, at Baker Street. John invited us to come round tonight. You know, Greg Lestrade, Mike Stamford, some others… me… ”

“Are you going to wear that?” He nodded at her jumper and she looked down.

“Umm, no. I might dress up, a bit.”

“Wear that black dress,” he said, turning back to the microscope.

“Oh?” She smiled, touched her hair with a nervous hand, a bell jingling with the movement. “You remember… Did you like it?”

“It didn’t make noise.”

Molly’s shoulders fell a bit, then lifted. “Well, Greg liked it, as I recall.”

“Then wear it. He’s divorced now, haven’t you heard? Merry Christmas.”

“Sherlock!”

“What? It’s obvious he fancies you.”

“Is it?”

“Of course.”

She bit her lip. “Really?” she asked tentatively.

Sherlock sighed, exasperated. “Is it so difficult to see?” He didn't mean to snap, although the conversation was hitting a nerve. Loathe as he was admit it, he knew a thing or two about unrequited love, had tried to bury it with work.

She didn’t answer, shrugged, uncertain.

Sherlock sighed again. “Look, I’ll personally ask Mrs. Hudson to serve you each extremely large drinks and steer you under that… what’s it called... that pagan white berry thing.”

“Mistletoe?”

“Yes, that. Then everyone will be put out of their misery.”

“Would you really do that?”

“God, yes, anything to make it stop. The looks he gives you over a cadaver are really quite disturbing.”

Molly picked up the tray again and smiled down at the liver quivering in the light. "You know," she started, a thought occurring, "Maybe I could say something to..." she hesitated, thinking twice, not sure she should interfere.

"What?"

"Never mind."

******

The evening arrived, as did guests, and there was nothing to do but live through it. Mrs. Hudson was atwitter with excitement, greeting people, pouring drinks, as John helped take coats and scarves.

Sherlock, true to his word, had asked Mrs. Hudson to see to Lestrade and Molly. She had eagerly accepted the challenge.

Voices, more people. Damn. It was Sally Donovan. And Anderson. They exchanged cool glances, arched eyebrows. He turned back to the window, looked at his watch. John came up behind him, put a hand on his shoulder, handed him a drink.

“Surviving?” John asked.

“Barely.”

“It’s for Mrs. Hudson, remember. Just smile and say very little.”

Sherlock stayed in the background, amused himself by watching Mrs. Hudson expertly ply the generously filled tumblers into Lestrade and Molly’s hands, exclaiming over how lovely Molly looked, and oh, wasn’t it so nice to have snow this year?

More drinks, he played two carols on the violin, watched as ties loosened, wisps of curls from pinned-up hair escaped, laughter increased. Mrs. Hudson, crafty as a fox, began talking to Molly again, guided her subtly toward Lestrade, then backed them both toward the doorway of the kitchen where the mistletoe hung.

“Oh, look!” Mrs. Hudson pointed up with a red lacquered finger, feigning surprise. “Mistletoe! You know what that means.”

Molly flicked her eyes shyly at Greg, who hemmed and hawed until Mrs. Hudson chided them, “Oh, come now, it’s tradition!”

Greg, playing the good sport, leaned down and gave Molly a peck on the cheek.

Sally, never one to miss a chance to embarrass her supervisor, chimed in. “C’mon, boss, you can do better than that!”

Lestrade, bolstered by liquid courage and a bit of attention, bent low and covered Molly’s mouth with a proper kiss, one hand moving briefly to the small of her back, the other to her jaw, before he remembered himself and broke away. It brought the room down with cheers and whistles.

The night went on, people drifted out. As Molly and Lestrade exited together, Molly gave Sherlock a smile over her shoulder. He nodded, caught John casting him a surprised look.

When everyone had gone, John sent a rather tipsy Mrs. Hudson downstairs with profuse thanks and promises that everything could wait to be tidied the next day. Finally, at long last, it was quiet, the room dark but for the fairy lights and fire. John picked up two tumblers, set them near the sink, then turned to Sherlock, who was bringing three more empty wine glasses into the kitchen.

“I know what you did for Molly and Greg,” John said, smiling, wiping his hands on a towel. “Mrs. Hudson told me.”

Sherlock shrugged, set the glasses on the table. “I merely observed.”

John was silent for a moment, draped the towel over the back of a chair, cleared his throat. “So you’re an expert, then, at recognizing the signs of attraction?”

“The signs are fairly clear: dilated pupils, unconscious mimicry, unnecessary touching or proximity, extended eye contact, particularly…” he faltered, noticing how intently John was looking at him as he took a step closer, “particularly gazing at the eyes... or the mouth… ”

“Look up,” John said softly, quite close now, his eyes grazing over Sherlock's mouth, then up to his eyes.

Sherlock glanced toward the ceiling, saw the green and white sprig above him. He swallowed. Surely John wasn't... couldn't be... interested. Could he? “Mistletoe is a parasitic plant, possibly toxic in large enough doses.” He was rambling, suddenly unnerved, becoming unmoored by what might be -- wishfully, finally -- happening. “Why is that supposed to be romantic?”

John moved even closer. “Will you shut up?” He took hold of one black lapel in his left hand, stretched up, placed a kiss on Sherlock’s mouth, drew back slightly. “Haven’t you observed anything else? I thought it was obvious.”

Sherlock was stunned. He hadn't dared hope John felt anything in return, hadn't been looking, and so had missed everything...

The church bell began tolling the hour and the fire burned on.

"I'm an idiot," he finally admitted, half in wonder, causing John to smile.

They held each other’s gaze in the flickering light, then leaned toward each other again, lips slowly meeting, an exploration, a discovery.


End file.
